


Prologue: Turning Point

by rosemallows



Series: Crystals [1]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz (Two River Cast) Actor RPF
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Victorian (kind of), Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, Musicals, Princes & Princesses, Spells & Enchantments, Warlocks, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:53:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemallows/pseuds/rosemallows
Summary: Middleborough Kingdom.Prince Jeremy's life is supposed to be perfect. He had gone the way his father had demanded him to and followed each order, each formality until he passed out in his bed at the end of the day.However, there are holes in his life that he cannot quite fill. His hands feel like they could hold the universe, yet they cannot do much of anything. His brain tries to piece the puzzle of his life together, yet all he remembers is a painful shock. There must be something more to this bland life.Michael Mell is a Warlock. Well, at his age, he should have been just as powerful as his mother. But he isn't. He knows his hands hold only a fraction of the solar system, and he's content with that. His family is rich, his skill is adequate, and his best friend is the crystal necklace he acquires. No, he would not like to talk about what happened when he was eleven.This Kingdom is full of greatness, diversity, and just a heaping spoonful of corruption. The big picture is not always clear at first, but, one will find that he is actually closer than ever to unveiling the scene and filling in the gaps.





	Prologue: Turning Point

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Victubia](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/496885) by Gabbiness. 



> "Crystals" [Boyf Riends Fanfiction] written by AttackOnDrunkCry
> 
> All main characters belong to the musical, written by Joe Tracz, songs written by Joe Iconis "Be More Chill"
> 
> This work was heavily inspired by the Youtuber web-comic "Victubia" illustrated and written by Gabbi or Gabbiness on tumblr. Many of the concepts in the comic that may have been used for the writing were reformulated to display my own creative process.
> 
> Dedicated to one of my best friends Carlie who has been my theatre buddy and sung many of our favorite songs together.
> 
> Thank you to this musical for being the sole reason I've decided to step into the musical theatre world for real-- meaning I'm putting myself out there and engaging myself in theatre based activities that the old me would have been too terrified and skittish to do.
> 
> Please listen to the song "Me & Michael" by MGMT when listening to this chapter.

  
One, nor the other had been quite so sure who came back to the other in much later years. It may have possibly been fate that aligned them together, could it not?

Now one could not be so sure as to what emotions they remember suppressing in their chest this one aching day. However, the sky had been quite blue that unpredictable autumn beginning. When the heat of the great sun would be dying down, Jeremy Heere and Michael Mell would ultimately dread the day they return to school and shrivel underneath the judgmental peers of their classmates as they gathered their books into their arms.  
And Michael would never explain to Jeremy about the one day he was absent, and the orange haired kid that Jer was paranoid about who smelled like freshly squeezed lemons, threw Michael into the ground and beat him til his glasses were broken and his stomach was painted with bruises. From that day forward, it was learned that the fire-headed boy's father owned three buildings in Middleborough City and that pretty boys liked to torment Michael when Jeremy couldn't make the attendance.

Heere had sat down in front of the rusty mirror hidden away in a cabinet in a forbidden area of his small cottage. It was nearly _impossible_ to sneak into the old cupboard because the doors creaked so loudly it may have been the equivalent of cracking a bullet from a gun. He opened up the white wood and grinned at reflection Jeremy Heere, smiling with big teeth at real life Jeremy Heere.

He could see his eleven year old self, beginning to grow out of that eight year old physique. No longer were his arms too thin and noodle-y, but were packing a little bit with meat and maybe too his chest would poke a few hairs.

He stared down at his cotton, sky blue sleeping top and yanked down the buttons. With a finger to his skin, he scavenged for at least _one_ bit of hair, but to no avail! The head of hair he saw in his reflection was slightly tangled and towering over his forehead like an unbalanced sea-saw. But, however, his thorough examination of himself was short-lived as his ears snatched up the sound of his cottage door opening.

"Doyy!" was a common, unintelligent phrase (And a habit Jeremy's friend would like to break) the child used when faced with a surprising situation. His small hands quickly pushed the cabinet doors shut and he sprinted out of the tiny, and, quite frankly _dusty_ smelling room to greet his father, Paul Heere, who had returned from his pleasant job assisting in selling produce, papyrus paper, wax, and writer's ink as well as artist tools with some man whose beard were trimmed as if he were a Royal.

"Jeremy?" his father called out.

"Dad! Hey! Hi," the child replied, stumbling down the hallway and looking slightly disheveled. His cotton top and pants were a bit singed. Paul's eyebrows quirked upward in curiosity at his son's tangled locks and mischievous glint in his eyes. Jeremy, eleven years old, was definitely going to be a tall boy when he came of age. At eight, he was notably a very small child, often not taken seriously by other peers. However, that may very well change, as Jeremy's short height has increased significantly over the past few months.

"Jeremy, what happened to your clothes?" His father laughed, already shrugging off his smoking jacket and revealing his work uniform, smeared in black ink and holes. By his feet, a basket of golden crisp apples, raw carrots, onions, and potatoes.

"What happened to my . . ." Jeremy looked down and gritted his teeth at the odd new, small, smoky holes in his pants and shirt. Of course, these occurrences often took place whenever the child was caught by surprise or anxious. "Ohh."

"You practicing fire magic again?" Paul picked up his basket and looked displeased as he walked past his son into the small kitchen. Jeremy, not really wanting his dad to know that he snuck into the part of the house where he was never allowed, nodded his head vigorously, not highlighting the fact that sometimes, magic spurts from him out of nowhere. "God, Jer. See, I don't have any problem with that, but, come on. You know we can't afford many new clothes. Now, come on. Chop these carrots for me."

Jeremy glanced out the window and saw the stars shining high in the dark sky. It was incredibly late, and incredibly beautiful, but he usually saved his sightseeing the midnight skies for later when his Dad was long since done with stitching up the holes in their blankets and preparing the breakfast for his son to cook on his own in the morning.  
The child sighed, rolled his eyes and grabbed a sharp kitchen knife from the rack and a cutting board from the bucket. He grabbed a raw carrot and began chopping as normal. The routine every night.

As they prepared dinner and the leftovers for Jeremy's breakfast, Paul began to talk again. It was that same lecture that bored the boy every night.

"Jeremiah," he began. "You don't know how much power you have in you." He dropped a potato in a pot of boiling water on the gas stove. Jeremy chopped up the last carrot and swept the pieces into a wooden bowl. "You know that you're special right?"

"Sure," the kid replied. "What do I do with these?"

"Put them here."

He put them on the counter near his dad.

"I'm serious, Miah! You've got a power that no other eleven year old kid in this town has. It's a beautiful thing. Don't take it for granted. And, hey, maybe when you turn fifteen, you'll be able to go where Mom went." His face reflexively twisted up in disgust at the mention of his mother. It wasn't that Jeremy, _hated_ his mother, per say, just that he was sick of his father's constant "subtle" mentions of her throughout the cooking of dinner every night.  
It was clear that he wasn't over her packing her things and leaving, not even pressing a kiss to her son's forehead. All Jeremy could remember was her stone cold eyes, the color of the ice and the sea, staring at his without any love or care. Just blank.  
Her pretty lips were painted the color of tulips, water blob hovering above her fingertips.

And her short cut hair and magic eyes and tall figure stormed out the door without a trace.

"Nah," he deadpanned, clenching the ends of his top. "I've been trying to stop practicing the elements anyway." Not a truth at all. He often tried to extend his abilities when alone in his room, or crossing his legs underneath tree trunks and attempting to will the branches to bend down and whisper to him.

His father's steel grey eyes met his, and the boy swallowed thickly. "Oh. Well . . . then that's good. People will forget and stop bothering you." He watched as the older man threw together a messy, and although made with lots of effort, not very tasteful, meal of carrot soup and potatoes.

They sat at the polished table in the dining room, still equipped with three chairs and blue tablecloth. Jeremy took his first slurp of the soup, which tasted mostly of water and little to no seasoning. He kind of wished that Dad would throw some onions in there, salt, or maybe even chicken. But he was hungry. So he finished up the flavorless potato wedges and enjoyed the soft carrots and forced himself to drink the soup.

Paul Heere worked himself miserably each day, even attempting to dedicate the hours in which he should sleep to care for his son who was famous around town. What horrors could the little boy be, if he refused to accept the kindness and attempts his own parent gifted him?

"Enjoy it?"

Jeremy only smiled and replied, "I'm tired now." The little boy's father smiled back softly, gesturing him to go to his bed, as he collected the ceramic from him.

With a full stomach, his feet padded down the creaky hallway and to his small quarters just a little out of sight of his father's room. There was a single window in his bland room and moonlight often spilled through the panes to illuminate the oak floors. He sat on his bed and crossed his legs, hoping the timing would be accurate this time.

The child shut his eyes and counted down in his head. He absentmindedly moved his lips to the numbers in his cranium. "7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . ."

_Tap. Pause. Tap Tap._

His eyelids flew open and he rushed to the window, lifting it up to reveal a boy with mocha skin and a big smile. His head was covered in a cloak and his eyes were framed by his thick, round glasses. The child looked to be around Jeremy's age, and his body twitched excitedly. His fingers underneath the black cloak fidgeted eagerly.

"Michael!" Jeremiah whispered. On his face was plastered an even bigger smile as he reached over the ledge of the window and snatched his friend up in a hug.

"Yo," his friend replied. "Check it out. I found out that black cloaks disguise you better! Well, Mom told me. But hey, look what she got me!" Michael, his smile so wide the other boy wondered if it would break his face in two, held his palm out and in the pale moonlight, was able to make out fingerless black gloves decorating his skin.

"Huh," he deadpanned. "Okay . . ."

"Touch it first!" the cloaked one squealed.

And he reached out his fingers, stroking it along his friend's palm. His eyes widened up in surprise and admiration. "No way . . ."

Michael nodded his head vigorously, practically jumping on his toes. "Silk! _Black_ , _squid ink silk_! Like regular silk . . . _Just dyed with squid ink_!" Jeremy laughed wholeheartedly at his friend's excitement and stared down at the glamorous product, holding his friend's wrist in one hand while stroking the material with his other.

"Woah, but didn't the King like . . . _discontinue_ it?"

"That's what makes it so awesome!" the elated child squealed. "It probably cost a _fortune_. Mom is the best. But I'm only gonna wear this thing when I get to go to my first Royal Palace Ball."

"Duuuude! That's so cool. You _need_ to take me, Mike."

He rolled his eyes, and the pale child could see his friend's face tinged slightly red while he talked and caressed his palm. "Duh. Of course I'm gonna. You're my favorite person in the whole world."

"Nuh uh! You're _my_ favorite person!"

"Come on. You're _my_ favorite person. You can control fire, water, earth, metal, and wood with just your _mind_!" Jeremiah flushed red, recalling the day he awed the children at school. At the time, kids still picked on him and would try to, well, _provoke_ him sometimes. However, maybe he should be thankful for the day they did what they did, otherwise Jer would never have found out what he was destined for.

A girl with an ugly shaped nose and an oily grin tried to toss a bucket of dirty water at the boy, while, another gal with neater hair and a glamorous complexion began to chuck dirt and rocks at him! He hadn't been with his favorite and only friend that day, as his mother picked him up early due to a stomach bug bombing his gut. The child remembered that day quite clearly. They were outside on the field in the pleasantly warm weather and other children were picking at the grass, scavenging for treasure which really meant scraps of paper or broken glass and various common metals in the dirt. But it also meant tragedy for the _nerds_.

The two girls attacked him in unison, but as the water almost collided with his body, Jeremy, racked with panic and awfully shaking limbs (so terrible his whole body convulsed in an almost inhuman way) shrieked out at the top of his lungs, "GET AWAY FROM ME!" which caused the water to fling backward at the ugly girl and mud to _splat_ against the pretty girl's white sundress. And, without realizing it until days later, the kids who were picking at the ground wrote down that the metal burst up from the dirt and flew back toward the oak tree. (Later on, a pile of scrap metal was found near the old tree)  
The girls sobbed and apologized profusely to their parents, to Jeremy, and onlooking teachers whose mouths dropped in astonishment. A couple of hours later, a tall man in fancy robes had confronted Jeremy, a couple of glass balls containing the elements placed gingerly on a soft, gold pillow.

"Heere, Jeremy of eight years, kindly move any of these elements in any possible way."

Jeremiah, confused and lost, hovered his palms over the glass spheres and, strange enough, without uttering a word, willed his mind to speak at the elements. To his and the old man's surprise, all five balls floated upward, circling around Jeremy's head like a halo.

"Oh my God . . ." murmured the man. "He's . . . He's . . ."

Later that day, Michael was cranky because he's "always absent when something cool happens."

"Duuuude," Michael cooed. "Your face is so red! Haaaah, look he's blushing!"

"Am not!" Jeremy insisted, however, the fact of him shrinking into his shoulders and hiding his lava red cheeks told the other boy otherwise.

"You _areee_!" he responded, grabbing Jeremy's hands and scrunching up his face in the most teasing way.

The pale boy picked his head up, smiling lopsidedly at Michael. He looked at his big brown, chocolate colored eyes and his nest of dark—almost black—hair and dark as the night getup and wondered, just for a second, wondered if he'd be here by his side forever?

Because, true, Jeremy was born with the gifted ability to control five elements with a strong voice and powerful mind, but Michael? He was his best friend who could boost his confidence, make him smile whenever, help him feel like he wasn't so alone, and reassure him with his bad feeling of this guy who had fire-colored hair.

To the eleven year old, there was no greater power than Michael and his personality.

(He wondered about the day he hung out with him and Michael was clenching his stomach and _limping_! It worried him a lot.)

"I should probably go. My mom's gonna turn me into a toad again if she finds out I'm still sneaking out to see you." He began to turn and run, but Jeremy grabbed his gloved hand one more time.

"Wait, your mom turned you into a _toad_?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Once. And it's because she caught me sneaking out. ' _Stop visiting that boy_ ,' she said. ' _He's the reason you're not a successful witch boy yet_.'"

"Michael! Your mom's not letting you come here!?" Jeremy's eyes were wide and panicking, like disobeying your parents caused _the end of the world._

"She just hates me going out in the middle of the night. Too dangerous she thinks. But a little moonlight won't stop me from visiting my _favowit_ person."

Jeremy sighed, rolling his eyes and let go of his wrist. "See you tomorrow, Micha." His friend grinned, waved and put his black hood up. He ran away, toward his big, fancy house that Jeremy would never admit his jealousy of. The boy watched his flowing, black cloak dance in the breeze and melt away into the background of the night.

* * *

Michael grunted in the process of heaving himself up through the high, round window. It was a struggle, his chubby arms and short height were not helping his dilemma. But, he thought of the idea of his mother catching him again, casting a spell on him, turning him into a toad for two weeks rather than one this time, and he channeled all his strength into his palms pressing on the curve of the window ledge and forced himself forward.

"Nghhhh!" he growled, rolling forward onto the wooden floor. He ended up on his butt, cross legged and dazed and in a bit of an adrenaline rush. His room was shrouded in darkness, and he racked his brain for the name of the spell his mother taught him that would light up his room.

 _No_ , he thought. _I'll just put myself to sleep_. His bed was somewhere in the dark, that's for sure. So he picked himself up and, quietly, searched for the big red mess of wool that engulfed his bed. Once he found it, he tossed himself on top of it, tossed his circular glasses onto the ground, and ripped off his giant, velvet cloak that hid him from the stars and the moon and the peeping neighbors. _Invisibility_ he liked to believe he had.

Really, all he had were latin words that sometimes made something happen, and even then, he couldn't do anything _spectacular_ , besides conjure up tools and ingredients to heal things. He wasn't special, not at all, not like Jeremy was. Ever since everyone at school realized that he was a powerful skinny kid, they began to treat him like a god and Michael was treated . . . slightly better. Until his best friend wasn't there, and the kids were ready to pound the failed Warlock into the dirt and threaten him and degrade him for everything he stood for. His buddy was his shield. Jeremy, though, still an beginner, could handle cradling a wicker of a flame in his hands and will a mound of grass and mud to hover six inches off of the ground and raise a few inches of well water.

That is to say, it did pull the energy out of him.

Michael's mother was something extraordinary. A witch, who used her powers to heal. Some woman, who used witchcraft to mend the wounds of any creature. Maybe he thought that she was the most powerful woman in the world. With her powers and her being able to care for her son and all. Her spells were absolutely complicated, but she _learned_ them and _formed_ them and _twisted_ them into her palms and _formed_ them with her lips and expelled them into the air, only for those words and gestures with her palms to conjure up _atoms_ for witch purposes only. Like a toad for one of the odder recipes, or a glass of liquid fire for a much harsher vial. She was _magical_ and _strong_ and just _knew_ everything she was supposed to!

He had stolen a heavy spell book of hers off of her shelf, sprouting latin and trying to master one of the extremely tedious witch spells in there, but it was futile for such a young one and ended up in him cradling an ice pack to his head from the horrible aches it gave him.   
Michael turned over in his bed, curling up in his pure white cotton pajamas. He heard a whistle of wind blow against his now closed window. The events from earlier of him running across fields and roads to Jeremy's house began to catch up to his body. He felt exhausted, but there was nothing to regret. Getting a chance to talk to his buddy whenever they could never see each other made his heart swell with happiness. Even if running nonstop with a slightly pudgy body tired him, it's the tapping on the window and the relief in his friend's normally bored expression that makes all that worthwhile.

Besides.

Since he started sprinting, he'd notice the pudginess starting to go away.

He turned over on his side and squeezed his eyes shut. He was not fat. By any means. His cheeks were just, baby-soft and round and his skin, slightly puffier than an average kid's. But really, not so obese. He was fine—more to cuddle; more to love.

* * *

On the few days that the children could play together without rebelling against their parents, the two made the most of the situation. With the sun high in the sky, giving the town and the great big city one last wave of heat before its departure and leaving the Kingdom in a cool autumn, the two stood right in the middle of town square, proud in the heart of the market, where merchants sold their goods and parents and townsfolk handed over bags of coins for some breakfast.

Michael Mell, hyperactive eleven year old, was tapping his foot repeatedly on the soft green blades as he carved into the big old sycamore tree that shaded the carts and tents and busy busy customers. Jeremy took to hiding under his black cloak, though, it was sickeningly hot underneath it. He sat near his friend, shaded by the branches of the giant tree and seriously not wanting to attract much attention to him. Practically every townsperson knew his face, most, not even his name, but really only the "Golden Boy" and his super super magnificent fists and blessed brain. Jeremy Heere hovered a halo of dirt particles above his palm, pressing all his concentration into moving each rock exactly right.

_Move in two consecutive rotations per second, please._

"Just two rotations per second. It's slow, steady, and I'm not making you go too fast after all! Fair?" he murmured, palm twitching under the scrutiny of Mother Earth's body. Sweat was coating his adolescence. Brown locks were stuck like glue to his forehead, and his armpits were beginning to stench of something foul. Plus, the concentration of his brain and his burning eyes made it all a bit much.

His ratty shoes scuffed the dirt as he murmured little coos of encouragement toward the halo above his fingertips. It rotated once, and his eyebrows scrunched in desperation, staring eagerly into the element.

"Jer!" he heard. The boy yelped and dropped his practice, throwing the cloak off of him and turning around to face Michael, who, acquired white breeches and a red waistcoat over white sleeves. His signature outfit. Then of course, his dorky glasses.

The taller boy (As jeremy noticed the last few months) beckoned him to come up from his spot and smiled hugely at something on the tree. He was bouncing from foot to foot, slightly sweaty under the hot sun, but, joyful nonetheless.

The sweatier one stepped closer, peering at the bark of the tree, but not really finding.

"Uh, wha—"

"Here!" Micah exclaimed, grabbing his friend's hand and placing it on a random place on the tree. Though it wasn't a random piece of park. He felt a few small indents below his palm and slowly took it off of the tree. There, almost invisible, was a heart surrounding two stick figures, below that, carved words that were so neat it was unbelievable how someone could have carved that on tree!

_Best bros forever! Jeremy & Michael_

"Woaaah dude!" Jeremy whispered, caressing the marks. "This is so cool!" His friend grinned.

"I know. Also, oh, Baba Yaga, you look like you've ran a million miles," Michael commented, quirking an eyebrow at the boy's red skin and dripping face. Jeremy squinted and raised an arm to wipe the beads of sweat away.

"What? No, I'm fine, just a lil' hot," he replied. His friend raised both of his eyebrows.

"Man, you're gonna overheat and collapse on me. Come on, take off the cloak."

"Um, no."

"So what if people stare? Let them stare! I'll protect you from their stares." At this point, Michael stepped forward and grabbed his buddy's hood. He paused a moment, waiting to see if Jeremy would object, but he didn't. Just pressed his lips together and stared at Michael's face with a nervous gleam in his eyes.  
So, without further adieu, he pushed the hood all the way off and exposed the boy's sweaty appearance. The Warlock suppressed a grin, instead wiping away his wet hair and calling on Healing Magic to conjure up a cooling spell.

He felt a bit of energy drain him when he saw the particles coat and crawl around and over his palms. It was like boiling water on his hands, shifting colors at the same time. And, happy that this spell normally worked when he wanted it to, he pressed the magic against his friend's face.

Jeremy, alarmed for a second, sputtered out a "Wai—" before instantly cooling into the touch. "Aahh that feels _nice_." Michael snickered at his expression. It was one of pure bliss, the redness reducing to his usual pink colored frame. Jeremy took Michael's hand and pressed it to the back of his neck.

"Ah, that's better. Thanks man," he sighed, letting go of his arm. Mike gave a thumbs up and a lopsided grin. Jeremy still looked a bit red, though not dripping with sweat.

"Also, you smell."

"Thanks." Michael snickered and opened his mouth to speak.

"I saw you practicing bending the earth. How's that going?" His eyes cut toward Jeremy's hands, which were totally beautiful. His fingers were long and slender and were obviously not like only one bender's hand. His hands were shaped like every kind of element. Each one coursing through heart lines and skin and blood. Perfect. It was obviously a powerful hand and one hand like so could not be forgotten, nor eliminated. Such a strong indication it is that his next bloodline will be as powerful.

Jeremy squeezed his fist, then released again. "Uh . . . not too bad. I mean, there's a lot I need to learn. I um. Um. I guess it would be pretty cool if I got to go to that magic school." Michael narrowed his eyes, looked to the side and cleared his throat. Sometimes Jeremy would ramble off, start saying the 'if I got to that school . . . imagine how famous I'd be . . . One of the very few rare Vox Magis in the world. I'd be cool. And I'd be loved.' Michael once asked if he'd be too cool for him. It slipped out. But he didn't mean it to. Jeremy denied it. But that aching feeling in his gut burned like a growing flame.

The Magi was focusing on one element at a time. First, Earth. He hovered his palm over the grass near Michael's feet, gritting his teeth as he felt pressure in his hand, in his lungs.

"Relax man. Don't think too hard. Don't wear yourself out. This is just like a workout." Jeremy managed to make a small, barely recognizable bump in the dirt. He grumbled, but then looked toward the pile of rocks he dropped before Michael showed him the tree. He felt more at ease with the stones. So, he called them, and they came zipping toward him. They began swirling around his head like a halo. Mike seemed impressed. His eyes behind his thick framed glasses were big and full of curiosity or surprise or astonishment.

 _This is why he's the coolest_ , Michael thought, watching a smile stretch on his friend's face. He resonated that childish excitement. Jeremy squealed Micah's name and called on another stone. _No, this isn't why he's the coolest. He's the coolest because he's Jeremy._

The boy had a river of pebbles swirling around his head and an army of dirt and rocks spinning wildly above his hands. "Confidence," he mumbled. Michael was entranced by the way the boy had summoned those rocks to his command. Jer's face was fierce in concentration, red at the nose and scrunched up. He was about to speak, but was interrupted by the incoherent shout of a woman.

"The Golden Boy!" she screamed, an exasperated noise falling out of her mouth. Her hair was messy and her dress stitched from rags. Jeremy tensed up, frozen, feeling hotter than ever and all the rocks had fallen, either pricking his head or bouncing off of his body. Michael grabbed his arm as the lady ran toward him. Her screech seemed to catch the attention of many other shoppers. They—nosy bastards— inched closer to investigate, mouths dropping open in surprise and excitement.

"Did you see that!?"

"That's the Golden Boy!"

"Disgusting! A child of Satan that one is!"

"He's too young to already know how to wield such magic! Probably has no idea what he is doing!"

"I figured such a magical boy would be better looking . . ."

"Wow! You think he mastered them all already?"

The crowd surrounded them all, and Michael could feel his heart beating rapidly against his chest. He started to breathe harder, eyes darting from each villager's eye. His hand tightly held Jeremy's and he felt himself shaking and his body telling him _no. No. No. No_. A creature-- something something was tickling underneath his skin. And it was not comfortable at all. He looked over at Jeremy, watching his frightened eyes and quivering lips and face red from embarrassment.

"Michael . . ." Jeremy begins, but it's barely above a whisper and the comments of the crowd are loud and banging in his ears. But suddenly there is a man bursting through the crowd, shouting.

"Hey! Hey! Outta here!" And that voice is familiar. Jeremy's heart is beating rapidly once more. He recognizes that voice of his father, breaking through the crowd with the most concerned look on his face.  
Mr. Heere approaches the two boys. He looked at Michael and muttered a short greeting before grabbing his son's fists in his hands. "God, Miah, you look terrified. Come. Come too, Michael, we need to get you out of here."

With the villagers' eyes still staring at them, Paul scooped the bender's body into his arms with the Warlock following closely behind. The audience did not follow them. But Jeremy was freaking a bit, so the two sped up toward a more quiet area to rest. They ended up behind a market tent that was selling fresh mandarin oranges and free samples of orange juice.  
The tall man's son's face was sweaty again, but he lay against the tent, quiet and breathing slow. His father sat next to him, holding a gentle arm around his shoulders and whispering words quite difficult to make out to Michael, but it was obvious that the phrases calmed the boy down. Mike, breathing softly through his nose, went around the tent and asked to buy a pitcher of orange juice. The merchant, slightly skeptical, gladly obliged once the smaller child held up a couple of gold coins, way more than necessary for a fruit beverage. He received the pitcher in a lovely bundle of leaves. The boy tore it off and came back to the two, chugging some juice and offering some to Jeremy and his father.

Jeremiah gingerly sipped the liquid, and his father politely declined.

"Sorry Dad," Jeremy mumbles quietly. "Ugh. I shouldn't have come out today."

"Don't be sorry. I let you go out here."

The conversation was cut short due to the unusual sound of clopping hooves and commanding voices speaking out. The trio slowly rose from their hiding spot. They spotted the crowd that surrounded Jeremy, surrounding something else. They could spot the head of a white horse—palace horse— and a huge blue and purple colored carriage popping out. The two complementary colors were not all that stood out under the intense shine of gold decorating it all.

"Woah—" Michael breathed out. His eyes shone brightly, taking in that giant vehicle. When the villagers shuffled around, allowing Mike a better view of the Royal sight, he could see more horses scrapping their hooves against the ground. Each had a black reign with some kind of gold nugget on them.

Jeremy stood right behind his friend. He latched onto the Warlock's arm with a slightly shaking limb, breathing nervously against the back of his neck.  
"Micah," he whispered, sending tingles against his friend's skin. "I—I think that might be the King." Mr. Heere heard this, his eyes widening in shock. He did not say a word to his child, instead staring right back at the entourage of horses, gold, a number of important looking men spilling out, and a curtain hiding a yet to be seen figure.  
"Th—The King?" Michael stuttered out. He blinked once, next looked down at his palms—obviously palms of a witch— and wondered about the squid ink gloves he had desperately wanted to wear to a Royal Ball. All the fantasies he's had came rushing back to him. How he'd think of impressing the King and he'd be surprised at such a small child—he must be the only one!— who acquired silk squid ink gloves.

Jeremy's eyes gleamed brighter, opening up even more as the villagers' feet stepped back to reveal many many men wearing silver armor, wielding long, sharpened spears that look absolutely _electrifying_. Each man was hard to identify as they all were in uniform. He could feel Michael slowly urge them both forward. The two were in a trance, it felt. The strong, regal energy of that carriage was enough to fill their young brains with images of glory, riches, gold, _royalty_ for a while.

The skinny child let his friend drag him through the sunny day and toward the loud murmur of townsfolk and their constant gasping and inquires for blessed kisses upon their children. Paul possibly could not have noticed the very tiny children sneak away as he too had been enchanted by the visual. He had not seen a speck of pure gold in his lifetime, nor had a Royal stepped through his quaint town. His sight was swallowing it all, overwhelming his head painfully yet gloriously.

Their bodies slowly ascended right at the foot of the excited folk. Royal Guards had by now placed themselves in a line right in front of the giant carriage, standing firm and prodding their weapons at any villager who dare get too close. By then, no adult had fixed their attention on the Golden Boy as they were all too captured by the sight of riches.

"Back up, kids. The King is getting out," hissed a guard who nudged Michael's pudgy stomach with the back of his spear. In response, the kid grunted at the touch and hit his back onto Jeremy's face. Jeremy still let his fingers linger on Mike's arm.

The carriage door opened and the crowd gasped.

A tall, very tall man stepped out of the vehicle. The regal aura reduced the shoppers and on-coming vendors to nothing but gawking faces quaking in their spots. The children tightened their hold on one another while being forced to jerk their faces upward toward the sun to glimpse at the man better.

The most predominant feature of the tall man had to be his eyes. They were a certain kind of blue that did not look natural. It had to be . . . a sort of _electrifying_ kind of blue. Like cyan, or teal. He seemed to be a product of lightning and a scientific invention. It definitely lured you into his gaze which was fierce and commanding.

His eyebrows were thick and naturally arched, but upon scanning the crowd, knitted together during the inspection. He had a clean shaven face, tan skin, and thick, curly short hair that was pure black, the shade of charcoal and the deepest pits of the ocean. Around him as he dramatically—and slowly—made his entrance, a long, black cloak dragged along his heels. As he stood up straighter, Jeremy examined the strange patterns embedded on his cloak. He could not make out the meaning of them. They were simply straight lines that sometimes made a rough turn and sometimes ended with a small circle. It was such a random pattern and invoked a feeling of . . . what was the word . . . fiction? Future? Regardless, the pattern was absolutely unordinary yet very enticing.

Jeremy glanced at the cyan robe—decorated with white leopard fur of course— fastened with a tight royal belt and fashioned with long white sleeves, somewhat hidden by the black cloak he acquired. He did not quite understand the necessity of wearing a black cloak over a royal robe. The intense heat of the day must have made him swelter, but the King looked fine and glamorous in the weather. His crown was proudly atop of his curly, curly hair. Dazzling in the light with diamonds and other various jewels that made Jeremy's mind go crazy with the possibilities of owning all of that.

He had an eerily calm face, accompanied by two Royal Guards as he began to make his way down the land. He had walked past the two children, not even noting their features or taking sight of them. He stared straight ahead, then scrutinized the adults and the bag of goods they held in their hands. He paused, motioning for the guards to stop with him. Silently, he gestured vaguely, but somehow the guards understood perfectly as the King spread his arms outward, and the men began to take his black long cloak. Soon, he looked more confident—was that possible?— and adjusted himself accordingly. The guards were very still, not showing an inch of discomfort or annoyance had graced their features.

The audience flinching, the King finally spoke.

"Hello," his voice slowly said, sending chills throughout the shoppers. Michael squeezed Jeremy's arm, but the skinny boy looked on with awe and stars in his eyes. He turned and cut his eyes toward a plump, middle aged man fidgeting with his spectacles. ". . . I am looking for a boy." He surveyed again.

". . . I've heard there is a boy who lives in this village who has the potential of mastering every element. Now . . . that is obviously a very rare phenomenon . . . And I recommend you do not hide him from me, or severe consequences will be distributed. The boy's name, the boy's name . . ." He turned to a guard, inquiring for the name, then leaned upright again. ". . . Jeremy Heere, or, popularly known as, The Golden Boy."

At the mention, Jeremy's shoulders stiffened and Michael's hold on him loosened. He felt his head swirling, the world tilting, and the crowd murmuring in discomfort. Everything began to move slowly, so Jeremy slowly turned his head to get a better view of his best friend. Mike's face stared in excitement at him, then concern, then panic.

"Jeremy!" he whispered. He held his shoulders, keeping him upright. Paul Heere, at the mention of his son's name, snapped out of his trance and looked between the King and his son, beginning toward the children until clamoring voices screamed. The people held him back, trapping him in the spiderweb of excited villagers. The crowd started to become restless, searching this way and that, for the Golden Boy. It was unbearable, and Jeremy was stiffening in Michael's loose hold. Mike's eyes darted from each clambering figure to the next, breathing becoming slightly more rapid.

"Here, here!" screeched a voice next to Jeremy's ear. The guards in front of them grabbed Jeremy's tilting figure. He gasped and began to hyperventilate in response. His confused, breathless gaze transferred to Michael and his spectacles, whose hand grabbed his hand reassuringly. Michael's chest was heaving up and down a bit too fast, and his eyes the size of the moon. He grabbed the boy's other hand, starting to speak, but not finding words. The King swiftly turned, electric eyes instantly pinning the small child's. He smiled oily, outstretching his palms.

"Ah, Jeremy Heere!" he boomed. The King took quick long strides toward the children, people instinctively making way for him.

Michael squeaked when he felt the powerful arms of a guard grab his body and pull him away from the two. He called out, "W—" but the guard hissed at him to shut his trap, held him a good foot away from his best friend.

His robe flowing behind him, he stood right above the child, smile reducing to a smaller one. His eyes glanced over him, and Jeremy saw his eyebrows and mouth twitch in dismay. But, despite that disgusted expression, he maintained a professional stance.

"May I see your hand?" he softly spoke, surprising the twelve year old. Jeremy's heart rate began to slow, and he raised his eyes up at the man's.

". . . What?" he croaked. The King did not repeat himself, instead holding a white gloved hand out for Jeremy's to put into. Horribly intimidated, Jeremy's mouth shut into a straight line, and his convulsing body shakily put his hand out, face up in the King's hand. The man studied the lines with intrigued eyes. His mouth had parted slightly open in response, and he slowly turned the child's fingers over and over, comprehending whatever he saw.

"So, it is true," he concluded, murmuring softly. The Royal stood to full attention, causing the young boy to flinch. He looked around and nodded his head. "You are the Golden Boy." The villagers around them whispered amongst themselves.

At this point, Paul pushed through the final people in the herd, rushing toward his son.

"Jer—"

A guard shoved his arm against the older man's chest.

"Do not interfere with the King," he stated coldly. Paul's voice choked in his throat, and he stood miraculously still, eyes frozen on his son's quivering body and Michael's nervous expression. The child in the red vest stared more at his friend's face rather than the King's, as he knew of how anxious Jeremy could get sometimes; especially when everybody's eyes were on him.

"Jeremy Heere." The King's eyes had narrowed, and his posture was perfect. He stared intensely at the Magi, beginning to form his words very carefully. "I'm inviting you, to live in my palace, become my son, and no longer live in this life of poverty." At the sound of that, the bunch of people exclaimed in surprise and jealousy. The child's eyes widened, and his lungs felt heavy.

Michael's mouth dropped, and he wanted to reach out toward his friend, run to him, just shout. He tried to shove through the guard's arms, but the man shoved back, standing firmly. He felt words climbing up his throat, but then falling back down just as he was about to push them out.

Jeremy's eyes were sparkling now, and when the King laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, Jeremy felt himself start to breathe slightly better. Thoughts of diamonds, golds and riches were clouding his senses.

"You will be powerful, popular . . . live the perfect life. _Rich_. You will get anything you want. _Jeremy_. Prince of Middleborough Kingdom. _Prince_ Jeremy." The sound of those words echoed in Jeremy's mind. Loud. Loud. _Loud_. His eyes darted around him, at the people who have intimidated him and the ones who declared him a child of Satan or the ones who had declared him a gift from God or the children who had bullied him until he found his powers. He thought of the child who had bright orange hair. He had such a sly smile, a fake grin and a fake face, but always sucked up to the Magi. The way he walked with him and Michael all the time made it seem as if they were best friends to other students. Jeremy had been irritated by it, and noted how he would always exclude Michael and how his best friend always looked so glum whenever that kid was around.

Whenever Jeremy had been absent, the next day at school, Michael would be smiling and bouncing over to him, however either limping or smothered with strange bruises. There would be particles of magic hovering around his limping legs or dark bruises, and Jeremy would know that that was his mother's healing remedy. When questioned about it, Mike would blame it on his clumsiness from Jeremy not being there to look out for him.

"Jeremiah!" his father's voice screamed, snapping the Vox out of his distraction. Jeremy turned to look at him; a man with distress dripping all over his features. A man in armor was pushing him ferociously, bound to bruise him. The King stopped talking with Jer, instead glowering terribly at Paul Heere.

The bald man grunted at the harsh shove he received in his gut, but continued nonetheless. "Jeremiah, no! Why are you thinking about this? Don't listen to him. His voice has heavy powers of influence! Stay with your dad, son."

The King's expression grew dark, and his lips curled into a snarl. "Selfish man, are you? You wouldn't let your child live a good life full of opportunities? He is suffering and poor here. His clothes have holes in them, he lives in a run-down home, and you barely support yourself. Don't be so cruel." Mr. Heere's expression became desperate, his body ached with bruises and hurt by the words of the King.

Jeremy's mind was dizzying. He had dreamt about being a Royal for so long, and his fantasy was beginning to unfold. The child smiled, thinking of himself as a Prince, wearing silk and sleeping in a huge bed and frolicking in the Kingdom, being able to afford anything and do anything. He looked back up, star-struck and tainted with excitement. His small hand grasped the King's. The black haired man turned and smiled down at the brunet.

The kid nodded, and began to follow his new father toward the carriage.

"NO! JEREMY!" shrieked an unmistakable voice. Once again, snapped out of his trance, Jeremy stared with a ghostlike expression back at Michael who had outrun the guard holding him and was reaching out toward him. His red vest was rumpled terribly, glasses askew, and tears were starting to stream down his flushed cheeks.

". . . Michael?"

"DON'T LEAVE ME!" he called out, squeezing his fists so tightly. The guards were already sprinting toward the child, but he thrashed and kicked and looked at the boy straight in the eyes. Black Magic was swirling around him, and the Guard was twisting in agony, yet refusing to let the child go. Jeremy's face was pale and ghostly, almost unable to recognize who the red-vested loser was. Michael banged his fist against metal, and it sent a shockwave of pain down his arm, punching the strong armor. He felt his bones throbbing horrendously, and the magic eating away at his energy the more and more he tried to summon it, but was more focused on trying feebly to convince his buddy to come back to him.

Michael was scooped up in a guard's arm, his metal arm squeezing his abdomen. The King took hold of Jeremy's collar and looked straight at the brown-eyed boy. His scary blue eyes sent a stream of terror down his blood, and he lowered his head and spoke calmly and clearly.

"You're now Jeremy 2.0. That child is a link to Jeremy 1.0. He is holding you back. If you want the Royal life, you will have to make sacrifice." Jeremy stiffened. And with his head turning toward the marvelous carriage and the sound of sobbing screams filling his ears,

\--he walked toward royalty.

Prince Jeremy sat on a blue-colored cushion that felt more comfortable than his bed had ever been, and his new father sat in the seat next to him, hands folded neatly in his lap. The muffled sound of screaming and murmuring crowds had spoken loudly to the Prince.

He thought of the castle, and how marvelous it must be.

And he was ready for this.

A new life, a new beginning.

 _Prince Jeremy_.


End file.
